


tell you what to do (to me, after)

by summerstorm



Category: Pretty Little Liars
Genre: Episode: s02e18 A Kiss Before Lying, F/M, Mild D/s, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 07:45:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Let me make it up to you," Caleb says, his knuckles tracing lazy patterns on the inside of her knee, over her jeans. (Coda to 2.18 A Kiss Before Lying, aka the one where Spencer and Caleb come clean to Hanna about working on A's phone behind her back.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell you what to do (to me, after)

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this the week the s2 finale aired, and today I came across it and was like, well, I haven't watched the premiere yet, might as well finish and post it before I do that. (Actually, it had more to do with me being a tiny little bit scared to jump into writing Teen Wolf fic, which is what I really wanted to do, but hey.) Title from a Marilyn Hacker poem.

"Let me make it up to you," Caleb says, his knuckles tracing lazy patterns on the inside of her knee, over her jeans. She's not too disappointed to enjoy it. The disappointment kind of makes it better, come to think of it. It wasn't just lying—her friends kept ditching her and Caleb wasn't exactly available, either. She missed this. She doesn't want to _encourage_ any more spells of distantness, so she doesn't say it out loud, but she, well, she doesn't want to encourage that, so she doesn't pull away either. She tightens her fingers around his instead, and leans back in the chair.

"We agreed we weren't going to do that, remember? The eye for an eye thing is not good to me."

"I didn't mean a literal trade-off," he says. He looks over her shoulder and back at her. "Is there anyone home?"

"No," Hanna says, charging with the word with meaning because no, there's no one home, but also _no_ , he just lied to her, he's not getting sex out of it. Even if it's been a while since the last time and she really, really wants to drag him inside now that the thought has crossed her mind. He stands anyway, his hands still holding hers, lifting her arm along with him. She licks her lips, dry from the cool air outside, and says, "I meant it."

He smiles at her. "I don't doubt that. But you shouldn't doubt that I want to make it up to you. Pick your poison."

She stands because it's weird to be sitting when he isn't, mostly, but once she's upright in the tiny space between the chairs, she finds it a lot harder to not go with it. They have, barring any emergencies, at least two hours until anyone gets home. That's rare. It's not exactly disposable. "Like I said, we're not doing that. By which I mean, this isn't it. This is me not wanting to kick myself tomorrow."

"Got it," he says, and kisses her. For someone who just suggested they should take advantage of her empty house, he sure doesn't make any moves towards going in that house. It's not like he's being chaste about kissing her—it's slow and calm, but not in any way shallow. His lips are warm, but his hands are downright hot when they settle under the hem of her shirt, snug around her waist.

Eventually, he stops, and she swallows a whine because he's just standing up, he's just pulling her to her feet so they can go inside. She picks up his destination and nearly drags him to her bedroom by the hand, but he doesn't complain and they get there fast, even if he distracts her with kissing when they're standing beside the foot of her bed and she forgets to get on it. He's annoyingly good at that, so annoyingly good sometimes she wants to yell at him, because it's not fair taking advantage of her attention span like that.

"I know I said no weird sexual payback," she blurts, suddenly, "but I have an idea. Maybe. If you want."

Caleb raises an eyebrow, just a little, enough to show wariness but not so much that it's condescending. Hanna's kind of programmed to recognize condescension when it's directed at her. "What's the idea?"

Taking a step back, she says, "Turn around." He tilts his head, frowning, but turns anyway, looking at her over his shoulder. There's a second of silence, then another. "This is weird."

"You don't say."

Hanna rolls her eyes. "Okay, I want to spank you, but I'm not sure how to do it or—I'm definitely not strong enough to hurt you but the concept is still—I don't know. I don't want to spring it on you or anything."

To his credit, he doesn't cower or look at her weird or, well, laugh, which is honestly what she was expecting. He just blinks a couple of times, his mouth a little open, frozen, and then he asks, "That's the idea?" 

"That's the idea."

"Okay," he says, nodding a little. It's a let-me-think-about-it kind of okay, not a yes by any stretch of the imagination, but whatever, Hanna will take it. They've never really done anything like that. There was that one time she told him she wanted to tie him up, in detail, but she never actually did it. It's not like she has rope or handcuffs lying around, and her scarves are sacred. Even the ones that are out of season. "Like, over your knee, or do you want me to bend over, or...?" The lines of his frown grow deeper as he speaks, like he's not sure even why he's saying these things, or even how serious Hanna is about it.

Hanna's pretty serious about it, she thinks. Like, not solemnly, somber _serious_ , but she did mean it. It's just hard to get past the what-am-I-doing barrier with these things. "I don't know," she says. "Does it work for you? The idea? Because if it does then you should be the one to choose. Shouldn't you?"

His head turns so he's facing the wall now. "That, or you're not comfortable sharing." He moves to turn around, but she steps in before he can, putting her hands on his hips, pressing her chest to his back.

"Would that be so bad?" she whispers, words that feel meaningless even before they leave her mouth, because no, of course it's not bad, but he'd like her to be comfortable. That's the answer. She knows it because she's heard it, a time or two.

He deviates from the script, or at least skips a couple of steps, and says, "Do you need me to tell you something weird I like? Or want to do? I can come up with something."

"Something that makes me feel better about this?"

"Sure," he says, and when she doesn't answer: "I want you to fuck me. Not now—we'd have to plan for that. But I do want it."

She still doesn't know what to say, and in the silence that ensues, he turns in her hold so he can look at her. She blinks, forces herself to say something. "Like—"

"Like with a strap-on," Caleb says. He's matter-of-fact about it, honesty above everything and all, but his fingers are digging harder than they should into her arms, and it doesn't look like he realizes that.

"Okay," she says, mirroring his cautiously open tone from before. She's tempted to ask for more, more things he'd like to do or that he'd like her to do to him, but then she'd get off-track fast and besides, she's sure he'll volunteer them eventually anyway. "I was thinking all fours on my bed, but then you said over my knee and now I can't get that out of my head."

He laughs softly and kisses her, deep and wet and—surprisingly intense. His fingers relax, thumbs stroking the soft skin inside her elbows. There's somehow still a trace of amusement when he says, "That's good, because I can't either." Hanna's not even done catching her breath yet, so she just nods bemusedly and holds on to his shirt, at least until he grabs her wrists and sets them at her sides. 

His hands come up to cradle her face and he kisses her again, a shallow slide of lips she decorates with soft bites. The sound of his belt being undone seems distant at first, like something she doesn't need to be aware of yet; then, the buckle clatters against the floor and he breaks away, holding her head in place until she opens her eyes and things come back into focus.

He goes for his fly, but stops at the button. "Do you want any roleplay to go with this? Or is it just punishing me for lying?"

Not that the idea of roleplaying spanking isn't interesting, but it's—she's in over her head enough already. "Just the lying will do." Her affected casualness sounds unconvincing even to her, but she rides it out; she steps around him and sits on the end of her bed. "Drop your pants, but don't take them off. Let me deal with your underwear."

He turns around and looks at her like he wants to say something, _ask_ something, but then he closes his mouth and wordlessly does as she says. "Anything else?"

"Be quiet," she says, the corners of her mouth curling a little, but other than that her straight face is the straightest, it totally is.

"I'll do my best." He's standing still, waiting for her to do something. Her heart is racing from nerves, but she also feels powerful, strangely taller. She reaches two fingers out to curl around the waistband of his boxers and urges him closer by it, tries to look up instead of forward. That's roleplay, a little bit, she guesses. It doesn't seem like a stretch.

"This is—going to be a little awkward," she mumbles. Then, more clearly, "Bend over my lap."

There's a pause, like he's maybe reconsidering, his brows knitting together for a moment, but it's not long before he goes with it, crouching awkwardly over her parted knees. He rests a forearm beside her on the bed, and seems comfortable enough, stable in that position even as she runs a hand down his clothed back, over his ass. It would be easier if he was naked, probably, but then there would be no illusion of—whatever this is. The punishment thing.

"Maybe if you figure out what you want to get out of this," he starts, but the rest of the sentence is lost when she smacks his ass, hard enough for the sound to ring in her ears despite the fabric barrier.

He doesn't react beyond a brief flinch, either because it didn't bother him or because he's doing the stoic, this-is-deserved thing, or both. She rubs her hand over his ass, up his lower back and down again, beneath his boxers this time. She lets her nails drag over his skin, hard enough to make a raspy sound. "I'll let you know when you're allowed to talk," she says, not entirely unkindly, and pulls his underwear down to his thighs. He hisses at that, and she slaps his ass, bare this time, harder than before. It makes her own palm tingle. "Do I want you to count? I think I want you to count."

"Up to—"

"However many I say is enough," she says, stroking his reddening skin with her fingertips, pressing down in places just to see him squirm for the second he does before he catches himself. He should be squirming more. She wouldn't mind if he played it up for her. "So that was two," and he counts the third, fourth, fifth slap. She alternates cheeks just to even out the reds, the fingerprints. She wonders how long they'll stay there. She kind of wishes she weren't wearing these jeans, so she could feel him against her leg. She can tell he's getting hard, but she wants to feel the wetness too, wants to point at her thigh, after this, and tell him to lick it off.

She slaps him a sixth time, as an afterthought, and he almost loses his balance.

"Stand up," she says, and before he sneaks a look at her, "don't look at me." The breath he takes is audible, sharp, but he rises to his feet, stands facing her desk. His pants and underwear pool around his ankles, and she stares for a moment before she remembers to undo her jeans, quickly, efficiently, toeing off her flats so she can take her pants off properly and slipping her feet inside them again after. She leaves the jeans on the floor; they're due for a wash anyway. "Get back here. Like you were before."

His eyes stay mostly on the walls even as he bends himself over her knee again. The first contact of skin on skin is a shock; he makes a noise deep in his throat, restrained but easy to hear in the silence, and rubs his cock against her thigh, moving in a way that looks unconscious. She has to slap him again to make him stop.

"Seven," he grits out, and stills.

"Good," she says. "You can't lie to me. Don't answer. You should know better. Do you have any idea how hard it was to cut you out of my life the first time?" The next slap is heartfelt—careful, but heartfelt, because she does, she remembers how it felt to stay away from him, to say no. She's glad she did it, but she doesn't want to have to do it again. Out loud, she says, "Don't make me do it again." It probably doesn't help her point that her underwear is sticking to her by now, but he doesn't know that, and he knows she means what she's saying, despite the fact that she's saying it in this context. She hits him again, anyway, to reinforce it. "That's nine," she says. He doesn't answer, but she can feel how tense he is when she runs her hand down and up the back of his thighs, attempts to smooth out her fingerprints with her palm. "Lie down," she says, and half of the tension in his body seems to leave instantly, "on your back." At most, the contact with the mattress will sting; this wasn't about hurting him.

His back makes a cracking sound when he stands; he's still hard, so hard he's leaking, leaving a smear of precome on her thigh. His dick twitches when she looks at it, which she reads as another sign that he likes the pseudo humiliation of this whole thing. She moves aside so he can climb on her bed, and then she gets his clothes off properly, leaves them on the rug by her desk. She has to climb over him to get his shirt off, and that ends up somewhere near the door, tossed there as an afterthought while she kisses him.

"Can I talk now?" he says softly, and she shushes him. She's on all fours over him, trying to keep their bodies separate, but it's difficult, and uncomfortable, so she takes the chance to sit back on her heels—or, to be more accurate, on his legs, right above his knees. She spreads a hand over his stomach and looks at him for a minute, trying to figure out where they go from here, if there's some way to keep up the whole dominant façade and if she even wants to. She can't think of anything to order him to do that he hasn't asked _her_ for before. Not that she couldn't sit on his face anyway, or something, but it kind of defeats the purpose.

"Maybe I should make you go home like this," she muses out loud.

"Naked?" he says, his voice hoarse.

"Hard." She lets her wrist brush against the head of his cock, and his hips make an aborted rocking motion, trying to get closer. She'd consider the naked option, but the last thing she needs is someone she knows getting arrested—like the police don't have it out for her as it is. "I mean, if I let you come now, that would be a reward, right? I'd be sending mixed signals. I hate mixed signals."

He's biting his lip so hard his mouth is a pale thin line. In case he's waiting for permission to speak, she tilts his head expectantly. "Whatever you want. If that's what you want, I'll—I'll do it," he says, his voice barely a whisper, his eyes closing as he speaks, lids shut tightly like he's holding back. His chest rises and falls and she feels a wet brush of his cock on her arm, something unintentional that makes him hiss. "Please," he chokes out, and she's not sure what he's asking for—he just said he'll do whatever, so is that what he wants? A decision?

She moves her hand higher, taps her fingers over his ribs, scrapes a nail over his nipple. "What if I just told you to come? Would you do that for me? Even if I didn't touch you?"

His eyes fly open and he bites his lip even harder, barely managing a small nod. She's never seen him this concentrated, not even with this laptop, not even when she tried not to watch him hack into A's phone. It looks like so much effort, standing by and waiting for instructions when he's on the brink of orgasm. The most she's ever held back is a few seconds, just waiting for a higher cliff to fall off; she's not sure she'd put up with what she's doing to him.

"I'm telling you," she says, and lays a hand on his cock, just to feel it, not stroking him, barely moving her fingers, but it's all it takes for him to let go, come streaking his chest, his stomach. His hands are tight fists on the covers, and she grabs one of them while he's coming down, touches it to her thigh, the drying pre-come there. "I feel kind of dirty. You should clean me up."

He opens his eyes at that, quirks an eyebrow at her. In response, she offers him her wrist, holding it before his mouth and giving him a 'what are you waiting for?' look. He reacts to that, licking lazily over her pulse point and moving on to the side of her hand, little wet spot she hadn't noticed until now, and higher up her arm. She's a little transfixed and doesn't realize he's stopped until he says, "Are you going to give me your thigh?"

She hums in acknowledgment, still stuck, and then she shakes her head and climbs off him, lying on her back next to him. "Come on," she prods. "I could take a shower, you know."

"I'm going to get you dirtier," he points out.

She shrugs. "Just stay between my legs and I'll be fine."

He cracks a smile at that and actually gets off the bed, standing for a second before Hanna's feet before kneeling on the floor and dragging her closer to him. He licks her thigh clean, like she asked, and then he mouths at her through her underwear and pushes the crotch of it aside, leaning in and closing his eyes almost reverently. She rolls her hips up, because really, they don't have all night, that's not even a jab. "Just get me off, please," she says, completely breaking character, "I don't have your patience."

"I don't know, you've kind of been waiting longer than I have," he says, frowning a little, but doesn't leave her room to whine. He just drags her underwear off and spreads her knees apart. She can feel her heartbeat reflected in her clit, her thighs tightening with every breath she takes. It's not going to take long at all, not after everything she's seen him do, not with the pleasure he takes in doing this to her, for her, whether or not he's following rules. She likes it better like this, anyway, just Caleb being Caleb and licking at her thoroughly, his fingers tight on her thighs while he closes his lips around her clit, sucking with intent and _looking_ at her, like she's daring her to lose it.

She comes with a cry, hips lifting off the bed and ankles crossing behind his back, keeping him there while the waves wash over her. He crawls up on the bed next to her when she's done, pressing against her side and dragging her up so she can stretch her legs without having to hold them up too.

"Give me two minutes," she gasps, "or five. Give me five minutes and then we take a shower."

He laughs fondly and rests a palm on her stomach, warm and soothing as they wait for her breathing to even out.


End file.
